Nocturnal
by freeze1
Summary: The tight pressure in Sam's chest is almost enough to make him close his eyes and go back to sleep. He would, too, if it weren't for Toby's phone still ringing in low, patient tones. Sam's been sleeping in Toby's office. Toby catches on. Implied TobyxSam.


The moon balances at the crown of the sky as the low murmur of the telephone pulls Sam from still, black sleep into a drowsy haze. He instinctively squirms about and wedges himself deeper between the cushions, the arm of the couch and his own, aching limbs indistinguishable from one another. For a blissful four seconds he considers rolling over – without falling off the couch, of course – and falling back asleep. Maybe he won't even get out of bed until seven, just to be extra defiant.

_Open your eyes, idiot_.

The blurry, unidentifiable room that greets him is bathed in murky twilight, and he has to blink three times consecutively before the bulky shadows morph into the furniture of Toby's office. There's something strange about seeing it like this, all shadowed and somber and empty, and the tight pressure in Sam's chest is almost enough to make him close his eyes and go back to sleep. He would, too, if it weren't for Toby's phone still ringing in low, patient tones.

He is not Toby, but if need be he can probably guess what Toby would say in certain situations, and this sleep-induced logic is enough to force him off the couch, stumbling awkwardly towards the desk.

"Hello?"

There is a short silence, followed by a quick, forceful exhalation. "Sam, what are you doing?"

It takes five seconds to recognize the voice, three more to associate it with a face, two more with a name. "Toby?"

"Do you," Toby breaks off and sighs again, short and breathy, and then continues, his tone softer, "do you know what time it is?"

Sam looks at his watch. "Three thirty. Wait, Toby, this is _your_ office."

"Yes, Sam, I'm aware that…"

"But why would you be calling your…Toby, it's three thirty in the morning!"

"As you've already pointed out, yes."

"No one is here for you to be calling at three thirty in the morning!"

"Except you, apparently."

Sam pauses to think about this, and as the dull weight on his forehead slowly lessens a wave of guilt sweeps through in its place. He hasn't been sleeping in Toby's office for that long, really. Just three days, or maybe four. Or even five. Long enough to figure out which position didn't render him with a sore neck in the morning, but it isn't as though he is forgetting what his own bed looks like. He hopes.

And while it is, in his mind, perfectly reasonable to sleep a few nights at the office, the fact of the matter is that Sam _hasn't_ been sleeping in his office, he has been sleeping in Toby's. Without telling him.

"Oh, right." He isn't sure whether to apologize or defend himself, and winds up saying nothing at all.

"How long have you been sleeping in my office?" Toby's voice sounds strange, muffled and thin and surprisingly not annoyed. Sam doesn't know how to answer this, because he has been sleeping there on and off for what must be weeks, now. But he doesn't have any particular desire for Toby to know that.

"Well, I'm not sure actually," Sam starts, then quickly adds, "but I know it hasn't been more than a few days at a time. At least, I _think_ it hasn't. I was definitely at my apartment last Monday, because there was a football game on. I mean, I didn't watch the football game because I was reading that memo on the ERA, but…"

"Sam."

"…Actually now that I think about it, it could have been the Monday before that…when was the 18th?"

"Sam."

"Yes?" Sam considers delving into that ERA memo he remembers only because he fell asleep on top of it and left an undignified trail of drool down the left margin, in hopes that he can avoid whatever talk he is about to have with Toby. Talks with Toby usually involve Sam talking for a long time to those dark, intense eyes, watching meticulously cloaked emotion slip through in the twitch of Toby's lips, the rhythm of his fingers against the desk. Sam often wonders how this man, a master of words, can express so much using body language alone. It's rather unnerving.

As expected, Toby says nothing, and it is Sam's turn to sigh. "I don't have a couch in my office."

"Do you have a couch at home?"

"Yes."

"Use it." He sounds annoyed, his voice tight, but it's a request, not a command, something deep and hard to decipher. Sam reflects that only Toby is capable of giving two words such complication, such hidden meaning.

Sam swallows. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

Sam lingers for a moment in the surprising warmth of Toby's voice, before a thought occurs to him. "Toby, it's three thirty in the morning!"

"Three forty now, actually."

"What are you doing up?"

A pause. "Couldn't sleep."

Sam wants to ask why, but since Toby hasn't yet asked why Sam has been sleeping in the West Wing, he doesn't have the heart to. He can almost see Toby, sitting up in bed in syrupy, dim light, running thick fingers along the spine of the book in his lap. Sam just assumes he'd have a book in his lap, although the thought of Toby falling asleep with his arms curled around a book is almost comical. Or, maybe it's the thought of Toby sleeping that is comical. Does he wear pajamas, or sleep in his suit? Maybe he wears the Princeton shirt Sam gave him two years earlier as a Chanukah present, the subject of years of sarcastic jokes after Sam had forgotten to take the tag off.

"Sam?"

Sam breaks off this train of thought. "Yes?"

"Don't…if you're going to sleep in my office, fine. You shouldn't, but fine. Just…tell me if you're going to, okay?"

Sam frowns, unsure. If he didn't know better, he'd say Toby sounds less than indifferent, even _worried_, but Sam dismisses the notion as highly implausible. Still, there is something deeper in his tone, something secret that Sam longs to ask about, but doesn't. "Okay."

"Okay."

"…Okay."

"Stop it."

"Okay."

"Sam…"

"Oh…sorry, I didn't realize I was doing it."

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"Yeah."

They hang up without saying goodbye, and it doesn't matter because in a few hours they will be saying hello again, anyway. Sam moves sluggishly across the room, wondering how Toby even knew about his sleeping habits, and concludes upon slumping onto the couch that Leo must have told him.

Sam wonders in the silent, lazy hours of morning whether Toby ever sleeps on this couch using his own suit jacket as a blanket, and eventually drifts off to the imaginary sound of a pen scratching against paper and the faint smell of cigars.


End file.
